


Grip

by hongmunmu



Series: Life, Death, Time, Earth [7]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, No Dialogue, it's 3am i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:50:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's petroleum. An oil spill will cause the bird populations to fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grip

They tumble, a dark clash of bodies. Tossing tempestuously beneath thin white sheets. 

Salt, pepper. Tingling on one another’s tongue. And Jiraiya would have been gentler if only Orochimaru’s kisses didn’t feel so much like bites.

Broad hands are hooked up around pale shoulders, pulling them closer. Skeletal ones are tangled in the other’s hair, like feathers, light, a mass of knots and layers. They fall around them and trail across the futon. 

But Orochimaru’s is the flip side. It’s like an oil spill. Pooling out across the pillows; a sea of dark cascades, dull reflections highlighting tints of vermilion and indigo and fuschia. 

                                           He  

                                                   is

                                                          so

                                             complex.

A sack of bones. A bag of flesh.

They are raw. Unadulterated and uncontaminated. Two demons clawing at one another’s skins with dirty claws.

They are Ouroboros, feasting on its own tail. A circle. Two koi, spinning.

                        Yin 

                                          &

                                                        Yang. 

They spin so endlessly; a pendulum. Jiraiya loves Tsunade so dearly and yet he cannot keep his claws off this dark thing beneath him.

Orochimaru is empty, completely. And yet here he lies so stained with                                                        _feeling._

And if Orochimaru is the moon, with craters and blemishes casting thin shadows beneath the surface; Jiraiya is the sun, burning, emanating, so pure, so whole. 

Yet Jiraiya is so weak. Tasteless, pitiful, human. Orochimaru despises it. 

Unsightly.

Orochimaru is so strange. So haughty, insinuating, silent. Jiraiya abhors it.

Unsightly.

They mark eachother.

You are mine. From now on. No matter where you travel, or what you do.

The promises you make. 

The ones you keep.

The ones you break. 

The people you betray. The gods you let down. 

The friends you fail. The orphans you save.

Until your last breath-

Until your skull collapses.

The night is long and the moon rolls over. The lights from outside filter in through the plants by the window and cast blanketing shadows, spiking, thrown against the walls and floors like black paint from a bucket.

Until the morning.

And they are nothing but whispered names, a tan hand running through oil-spill hair, crude oil;

And the never-ending rains wash down and they all but vanish in a flurry of claws and fangs and beating wings and hearts that will fail and collapse. Hungry monsters that tear at eachother in the night.


End file.
